


we were black before we were purple, and you never knew

by grandstander



Category: RWBY
Genre: M/M, i think the endings a bit.. eh.. but :T, its actually v old but i decided to finish it, this goes with a friend of mines fic!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 04:35:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3677688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandstander/pseuds/grandstander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How could a purple that was once as black as the fresh bruises on his skin be that tempting? How could a burst of lavender so sweet and loving that was born of red edged cuts say much of home? What is love if, you who sings and blooms like lilac roses, cannot know that it was born from black seeds?</p>
            </blockquote>





	we were black before we were purple, and you never knew

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a friends [fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3130622)!  
> its like a mix of pre and before their fic
> 
> im a sucker for color and color theory and symbolism and junk so i ran wild with it

How could a purple that was once as black as the fresh bruises on his skin be that tempting? How could a burst of lavender so sweet and loving that was born of red edged cuts say much of home? What is love if, you who sings and blooms like lilac roses, cannot know that it was born from black seeds?

For all Jaune's red and Cardin's blue, there are gradients and tints and touches around their edges where white and black have smudged their color. There's a black that touched the edges of Cardin's knuckles and finger tips, a black that makes his blue so dark it looks only like a cold, dark night sky with no stars-- alone, cold, and full of anger and hurt. 

It's full of fear and pain and an ache that's still fresh in his mind and on Jaune’s skin.

( There's still bruises under the edges of his armor where Cardin's shoved him and pulled him as he pleased. ) 

Blue is a color with many tales and many faces (the same can be said for red); like the sea, there is a beauty and solemness when one finds peace in the waves of turquoise. There is a fear, though, a dark agony and treacherous depth to such a sea of blue that approaches black and where no light can reach. Like the past, like an old heart and an old soul, that blue fades to black and the unknown, anger, pain. If such a sweet color is born from such a blue, can it really be so tempting? 

Jaune is red with a white core; a red that was born of nothing and was born from hope. In it’s shyness, it is now a triumphant, the colors of a king, the color of a hero’s cape and the color of righteous fury. And Jaune saw-- because he knows when a color is born and when it changes, he saw when a sea of depth become the color of dawn, he saw it in Cardin’s face and in his eyes, when lavender bloomed in his heart fresh as spring (and he was afraid, and he was sad). 

Jaune saw it, and he looked away, because he could not bare; he could not bare the sunrise when he was a sunset. And surely in that purple, there was a blue at the edge, a sorrow. A sorrow that went unspoken, that went unsaid; neither of them approached and neither of them receded. Cardin was born again in soft hues, his heart at least, and it stayed the colors of spring and rain because it was better this way-- it was better, painful still, but less so. Jaune continues in his crimson, he makes himself anew, with warmer light and more confidence. He stands alone, and it is oh so beautiful to see him so. 

As the wake of red is in his steps, there is a hesitance of pink, that throws glances over his shoulder-- and he can still see lavender, still see it in his eyes and in the air around Cardin. It tugs at his heart, but he cannot seem to return to something with black knuckles. It is a sad story, a broken one, but it is right in itself. It is fair, and Cardin knows that there is no need for his purple to be-- it is unfair, and it would be unfair for him to want as he does, so he stays quiet and he mends himself in private and does not let his purple bloom with Jaune’s red. 

In a garden that is quietly cultivated, and in the breath of an “I’m Sorry,” and a peace offering, and in Cardin’s own remorse (that he carries in the blue on his shoulders like weights for all his days), Jaune decides that a purple so gentle and so fair may be worth forgiveness and a kiss on the cheek.


End file.
